


Miss Wardwell

by LaLicorneRose



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Masturbation, May/December Relationship, No Underage Sex, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Past Abuse, Religious Guilt, Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLicorneRose/pseuds/LaLicorneRose
Summary: Poor Miss Wardwell lives all alone just outside of Greendale.What is it she gets up to when she's not a teacher at Baxter High? and how one student, Sabrina Spellman, might just change all of that...
Relationships: Mary Wardwell & Sabrina Spellman
Comments: 52
Kudos: 36





	1. Saturday

Saturday

Mary arose with the sun.

Eyes flashing opened from a dream, something so tangible and real and yet it slipped through her fingers upon the first glimpse of blurry daylight. Of real day, not the day that existed in dreams. In worlds populated with intangible fantasies, things that lay just out of reach in wakefulness and yet existed for her gratification and delight in the dark of night.

Her body had warmed beneath her sheets so that she felt perspiration on her brow, the back of her neck, other various and sundry unmentionable places. The room was a hazy blur about her, the face of the clock before her eyes obscured and unreadable. She squinted to no avail. She could not see and yet she did not need to see to feel the strain in her chest. The feel of cotton against her skin, pressing between her legs.

It would not do.

She reached out blindly for her glasses upon her nightstand. The room focused itself back into order as she sat up in her bed. She would get up. She would brush her teeth and wash her face. She would carry out the rituals of a day all to herself. Away from Baxter High. Away from the daily need to perform for classrooms of pubescent teens and gossipy colleagues.

Saturdays were days left to herself to do as she pleased. And she was pleased to remove herself from the temptations of sleep into daylight.

Securing her robe about her waist, she padded towards the front door of her cottage. The weekend news had been tossed haphazardly at her stoop. She opened the door to retrieve the paper, inhaling the fresh scent of the pine forest that surrounded her. The air was crisp. Winter would be upon them soon.

A mew startled her out of the contemplation of the seasons, of how quickly timed passed and yet did not change.

She turned to find the unassuming little white and orange cat moving slyly towards her. He pressed himself against her ankles, winding his body about her. “Good morning, Tigger.” The cat purred when she bent down to scratch at his ears, his neck, running her hand along the soft fur of his coat. He arched into her touch and rubbed against her again. “You must be hungry.” He looked up at her and mewed again. “I’ll be right back with your food, little darling.” She hummed and he patiently curled himself up on her stoop, seeming to understand just what his affections had warranted.

Carrying the paper into her house, she retrieved a bit of dry cat food that she kept on reserve for her wandering friend and poured it into a bowl as she skimmed the Greendale Chronicle headlines. The town library would be closing its research wing for renovations after a large endowment came from the wealthy Kensington family of Greendale upon the death of their beloved grandfather. Mary thought of the library wing, of how it had been in desperate need of repair. She would be anxious to see just what was done with it.

Nothing else seemed pressing on the front page of the newspaper.

She lifted the dish and carried it back to the front door. She placed it before the cat and he allowed her several appreciative pets as he bowed his head to eat.

Content with having serviced her visitor, Mary returned to the kitchen to make a bit of breakfast for herself. A cup of coffee. A fried egg over some toast. She sat at the kitchen table pouring over the mundane news of Greendale. How dull it all did seem. Elections were coming soon for several town offices. There would be a football game against their rival Riverdale next Saturday. There was a nice obituary of someone named Kathleen Rosenfield. She had been surrounded by her beautiful family, two sons and one daughter, Betty.

Mary bit into her toast. Betty Rosenfield, Betty Anderson now. She hadn’t thought of her in years. It seemed she lived in California and had returned to her mother’s side in the nick of time.

The paper dropped from Mary’s hands.

The coffee was getting cold.

Her eyes shifted to the window that peeked out to the forest about her, her fingers moved to scratch against the back of her wrist.

The house shifted around her. It was suddenly too quiet. Deafeningly quiet.

She got up and dropped her dish into the sink with a loud clanging sound. She almost jumped at the noise of it but it seemed to jerk her back into the present moment.

Moving into the living room she flipped on the radio. The local classical station murmured to life, a peaceful piano concerto filtered through the airwaves, the perfect music for morning.

There was the book she had left lying atop the arm of the chair the previous night. It sat there as if a reminder. She regarded the chair as the music swelled with some intensity of brass and woodwinds. She regarded the book, the chair, the night before. _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter_. She had been struck by the title at the library. The words on the pages brought with them a certain comfort that had washed over her in the dull hum of her cottage that previous night, where the radio played softly into the dimness of nighttime and a fire had crackled.

And she had been good and she had read the words on the page while fingering the gold cross about her neck absently and her mind had not wandered and she had allowed the text to wash over her until her eyes began to slip shut and she had carried herself to bed.

Now the sun shone through the front window and she took up the book again, sitting atop the chair. She opened it to the page she had left off on, the paper feeling crisp in her hands. A familiar sensation, a familiar feeling. Allowing herself the morning to slip into a world that was not her own. To fall into the pages of misfits and outcasts and loners who she knew intimately. Her fingernail idly slid over the skin of her arm as she read.

When her eyes came to focus upon the clock on the mantel she realized it was nearly a quarter to one. She had let the day slip by and she had so much to do yet.

She changed into a pair of trousers and a button-up shirt. She made a small lunch of hardboiled eggs and creamed spinach.

There was the garden to tend to. She had weeds to pull and plants to water for it had been a dry fall. Her finger sunk into the dry dirt, The ground felt rich against her hands, her hands that looked more and more weathered with each passing day. Her hand which cried out in pain the more vigorously she plucked at the weeds. She stopped to shake off the strange cramp, to massage her skin, to eye the tree line about her, listened to the way the wind whipped through the trees. It created a calming white noise around her.

She checked on the potatoes she had planted, the root vegetables that would do well in the coming chilly months. She looked at her tomato vines and knew that they would be producing the last of their juicy fruits for the year. She plucked the last few round, smooth tomatoes from the vine and placed them in her basket. She stooped down to pluck strawberries from between leaves, delighted to find them well ripened at this late time of the season. There were the cucumbers which she allowed her hands to smooth over, testing for firmness. Her eyes devoured the shape of them, admired them for a moment before selecting a particularly ripe one, knowing that soon the cucumbers would die off with the warmth of summer.

The sun was hot. She wiped at her brow, brushed dirt from her knees. Yes, the garden was going well.

She brought her garden finds into the kitchen and loosened her shirt a few buttons, feeling the metal of the cross pressed against her chest. She opened the fridge to place the vegetables inside and the cool air startled her for a moment, surprised the sweat that had formed on her chest. She was aware of the way in which her chest strained at the temperature change.

She closed the fridge and stood up straight.

She would shower off the feeling of the outdoors. She could feel the sweat stains in her armpits. The day had become strangely warm.

Divesting herself of her clothing, placing the cross necklace atop her vanity, and piling her hair atop her head, she let the water run lukewarm and stepped beneath its spray. The water washed over her body. Her eyes slid closed against the spray, the water regulating her body temperature. She crossed her arms over her chest. She did not move, not one inch. Just allowed the water to wash over her. The spray pressed against her skin, beating against her flesh. She was acutely aware of her nakedness.

She did not look down as she used a clean rag to wash herself. She dragged the material under her arms, down the skin, rubbed at her breasts, pressed the cloth between her legs. She paused for only a moment, only a split second, and then the water lost its steam, giving into a frigid flow and she jumped back, body pressing into the cool tile of the bathroom wall. She gasped, fumbled to turn off the water without allowing it to freeze her to death in the process.

It served her right, she supposed as she wrapped a towel around herself. It had saved her, her faulty hot water heater.

She redressed in a simple housedress and moccasins. She refastened the cross about her neck. The sun was beginning its decent downwards by the time she sat at her desk in her spare room. A room she had crafted into her designated work space. She liked the way her meager collection of books lined an entire wall. Telling the story of her tastes throughout the years. The classics, the literary, the research books, several mindless things scattered throughout – as if to hide away anything that was not considered academic. The desk offered her a side view of the forest through a window. She sat down upon the wooden chair, her body feeling at home in its pillowed surface.

Things made sense at her desk. At her quiet desk away from the world where she was in charge. Of papers and quizzes and letters and words and life…

The letter sat atop the surface of the desk. It had come that Thursday and she had read it twice. It was mundane. Dripping with unspoken questions that had always hung between them yet never quite seemed to matter nor surface. So that she learned about his day, his patients, his discoveries, his procedures… Words she understood yet could not quite relate to.

Relate, it was all they seemed capable of doing. Relating to one another.

Her finger traced over the signature. Tidier than one might think a doctor would have. Adam Masters – forever yours, darling.

It had been easy to slip into their relationship. They had crossed paths at school. In the library. He took notice of her pushing her glasses up her nose as she spent her weekends hidden away in her favorite corner of the research wing at the University. He was always pulling out books on medicine and slowly he began sitting closer and closer to her until he’d dropped a book and she’d been forced to look at him.

Their first date had been awkward. A quiet lunch at the cafeteria. Then he began bringing her coffee. He would sit with her at the library. They would read together and for the first time in her life she had felt a little less alone in the world.

Adam had paid attention to her. Adam had wanted to know her. Adam had asked questions about her. Adam did not seem to mind how she kept to herself. Adam did not push, did not force. Adam was a gentleman.

Adam pinned Mary before he left for his first year of medical school. They wrote. They related.

He came to visit her during her first year of teaching when he had a moment to breathe. He would whisk her off her feet, take her to whatever movie was playing and pay for a meal before he’d have to go back to school to study.

She did not try that hard to keep him and yet he returned to her. Again and again. She supposed it was something like love and so she had agreed to marry him.

It was as far as they had gotten. The agreement to some sort of proposal at some future date. The years had passed by like this. A wedding. A wedding that Mary had never envisioned nor did she foresee coming to fruition.

And yet they related. Adam halfway across the world now. This relationship still between them.

This letter in front of her.

She picked up a fresh sheet of paper and wrote. _Dear Adam_. Was he dear to her? She tried not to question it as she responded half-heartedly, encouragingly to what it was he had explained to her. She wrote of her monotonous week, omitting the way the Junior boys had heckled her yet again, the way that Principal Hawthorne had visited her classroom and she’d dropped a book on the floor in front of the entire class, what she had done on Thursday evening while alone…

She fingered the cross about her neck.

No, she wrote of her garden, of the book she was reading, the news from Greendale. She wrote the mundane and she knew he would return the favor.

And once she had signed _Forever yours, Mary_ to the bottom she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She sealed the letter and stamped it to put out for the mail Sunday.

There was the stack of papers that sat primly in the corner of her desk where she had left them Friday evening. She chose her favorite red pen and lifted the first report from the pile. It thrilled her. And she supposed she might be odd for being thrilled by it – for she always heard the other teachers complaining about the horrible task of grading. But she liked the idea that she could affect these youths in their quest for knowledge. She delighted in finding whether they had listened to her that week or not – it was always obvious in the points that they made. She could sense it in the details of the papers. Had they grasped the ideas?

Henry did well enough. He was always very attentive. Jeffrey had missed several grammatical points but his ideas were sound. Jacqueline received near perfect marks. Mitchell had clearly not read the entire ending of the novel. She very nearly crossed off half his report, but restrained herself.

She paused, sat down the pen, massaged her hand. Glanced out the window. Night had begun to blanket the world again and she smiled contentedly to herself. The day had been productive, her body felt warm from the sun, her mind at ease from reading, from the treat of perusing and correcting her student’s writing.

The classical radio station had switched over to some nightly jazz music that filtered in from the living room.

She reached for the next essay but her fingers came to halt upon regarding the name at the top of the page. She paused. A strange sensation, something akin to guilt or embarrassment washed over her.

She should simply lift the paper from the pile and grade it and yet it felt somehow special, different. Something to savor. Instead of pulling it towards her, she placed it at the bottom of the pile and then reached for the next report.

Tommie’s report appeared before her eyes. She shook her head in disapproval as she skimmed through his run-on sentences accented by fragments and a mix of _theirs_ and _theres_ and disagreement of subject and verbs. The paper looked as if she had bled all over it by the time she was finished with it. And yet – and yet she could not bring herself to give him a lower grade than a C-. For a failing grade would result in some sort of parent-teacher conference and she did not wish to deal with Tommie nor his father, Governor Theodore Klein. She had learned, from an earlier incident, that Tommie’s behavior would only sour further if his father was called in. And so she gave him the C-. And she gave him the way that he mocked her and the way that he asked idiotic questions that made her cheeks burn in shame. Because she had broken the rule of involving his father.

Her body warmed as the pile waned. The day was dark outside the window by the time she reached the bottom of the pile.

And then it was upon her. The final essay of the evening. She massaged her hands, stretched, putting off the inevitable. She felt taut. She crossed her legs. She reached for the report and smoothed it out before her. The handwriting was neat enough. Her fingers traced over the looping scrawl of the name.

Sabrina Spellman.

Alliteration.

She was not the best student in the class, but nor was she the worst. With her use of “…weather or not…” and “its about the struggle…” and other little grammatical idiosyncrasies that usually made Mary wince a bit, and yet with this paper it was strangely made acceptable. As if her revisions - “… ~~weather~~ whether or not…” and “ ~~its~~ it is about the struggle…” – were actually gentle suggestions the would be listened to and obeyed in the next report. For Sabrina could be careless with her grammar, but she was never careless in class. Always attentive, always the first to answer a question, always the first to have some grandiose idea about what it was they were discussing, always the one who watched Mary closely when she fell into some sidetracked but inspired monologue while the other student’s eyes glazed over in boredom. Sabrina paid attention to her and so she paid attention to the words on the page and when she reached the end of the report and sat back to regard it she found it bleeding. But the red was not a sign of attack, instead it was like a letter of tender suggestion. She felt that the B+ was fair because she held Sabrina’s words in high esteem, her thoughts were well formed. If only the girl would pay attention to how she presented her ideas. And Mary knew that Sabrina could present her thoughts well if she just guided her, prodded her, held her to a higher standard than the others.

The paper was placed atop the graded pile.

There were no more papers.

Mary capped her pen and sat back.

The night was upon her.

She felt tightly wound.

The pen tapped against the desk absently.

Her eyes shifted to the left, to the top drawer of her desk. She felt a familiar tug, an anxious twist in her chest.

A want…a need.

She closed her eyes.

No.

She willed herself to stand up, to stretch her tired muscles, to straighten her back. The day had grown cold again. She padded into her room and pulled a cardigan from her armoire. She went into the kitchen and tossed together a salad from the items she had picked from her garden. She ate at her table while precariously trying to balance _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter_ as she did so.

Once the dish and fork and cup were washed and put on a rack to dry, she wiped her hands with a towel and listened to the dull hum of jazz music that still floated through her home, listened attentively to the natural, nightly symphony of cicadas and crickets chirping away outside.

It was this moment in her day that she dreaded. She felt as if she couldn’t bear it, this ugly feeling that welled up inside of her, faced with a whole night stretched out before her.

She _should_ pick up where it was she had left off in her nightly reading of the _Bible_. She was midway through Proverbs – _“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding.”_ It would assuage her, it would keep her in line, controlled, good.

She wanted to be good.

And yet thoughts of the contents in her top desk drawer taunted her. Because that was the simpler poison than the other thoughts that swirled about in her mind, the other wants and needs that her body was always so tempted to fall towards, into…until she was drowning.

The other evil was less sinful.

Her body propelled her into action of its own volition, its own need. Instead of settling atop her chair near the fireplace and retrieving her _Bible_ , she returned to her office and flicked on the desk lamp. She sat rigidly atop her chair. She saw her hand shake just ever so before she pulled open the drawer.

She was not addicted, no. That could not be what it was. It was a mere little hit of pleasure that she allowed herself. It was something she could control. She did not _need_ it, but she had been so good that day. It was the least she could do for herself.

She lifted out the packet of Philip Morris followed by a box of matches and an ashtray that Adam had brought to her from Colorado. It had a canyon at the bottom of it. She hit the packet of cigarettes against her palm, stacking them. When she opened it, she realized there were only three left. She should finish them and then be done with the habit entirely. For a brief second, as she placed a cigarette between her lips, she considered that that might just be possible. She could easily kick the dependency, for she wasn’t addicted.

She struck the match and lit the end of the cigarette, pulling at it until it lit and the first hit of nicotine coursed through her veins. The smoke filled her lungs, warming her pleasantly. A lightness crept into her addled brain. She inhaled again, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling of her study.

Her hand shook as she tapped off the ash.

It felt good and yet it did not.

She hated herself for it and yet it was delightful.

_“But she who gives herself to wanton pleasure is dead even while she lives.”_

She wanted to stop and yet she smoked the cigarette down to the menthol filter. The room smelled of the sweet smoke, reeked of her sin.

Disappointed in herself, she scratched at her arm mindlessly.

She crushed the cigarette atop the canyon and opened the drawer to shove the packet and the box of matches to the very back recesses of it. She wouldn’t indulge again. She couldn’t. She emptied the ashes of her doing into the trash can at the side of her desk atop the letters that had not come to fruition for Adam.

She placed the ashtray inside the drawer and stood up, removing herself from the smoky room. She went to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth, her mouth. Washing the taste of the cigarette away vigorously.

She was bad. She had been bad.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, caught the iridescent blue of her eyes. She could see the guilt written in them, no matter how much she tried to wash it away she would never be clean of her sins.

“Ouch!” She cried and then looked down at her arm.

Blood had come to the surface. She was bleeding.

Her eyes widened and she moved to pull toilet paper from the roll and press it against her tender flesh.

How had that happened?

She should be more careful.

She tended to the sore flesh, covered the angry skin with a Band-aid.

Quietly, Mary made a pot of tea. Something chamomile and comforting. It had merely been a small blip on an otherwise spotless day. She could be forgiven for this small offense, couldn’t she?

She curled atop the chair by the fireplace as any normal, grown, adult woman might. She opened the _Bible_ to Proverbs and she read. She repented. She prayed quietly. Prayed until a sleepy calmness overcame her.

She closed the _Bible_.

Sometimes she thought it might be better if she were to fall asleep while reading. For when she got up, when she made her way to the bedroom to remove her clothes from the afternoon, to slip into her nightgown, there was a moment’s hesitation – a pause where she had to will herself to put the cotton nightgown on.

She did not look at herself in the mirror as she did this and she felt she had successfully won a war against herself.

When she laid down in her bed and took off her glasses and turned off the lights so that the room about her faded away into a dark blur of nothingness, she felt a familiar pain, a familiar yearning tempting her. She laid with her hands balled into tight fists at her side, staring up at the ceiling, willing her mind to clear, to think of nothing.

Nothing at all.

Nothingness.

Sleep came fitfully, albeit successfully.


	2. Sunday

Sunday

The morning had gone smoothly enough.

She wore a simple dress with grey tights. She had pulled on a long-sleeved cardigan, remembering the bandage on her arm. She felt the need to cover it. The more covered the better, she determined anyway. She needn’t draw any more attention to herself than what was completely necessary after all.

She adjusted the cross about her neck so that it sat just so. Its gold was the only garish touch to her otherwise simple outfit. The cross her mother had gifted to her upon her college graduation.

The chain rubbed at her neck.

She ate a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast, listening to the clicking of the clock, as if counting down the seconds to her weekly salvation.

She sat in her car in the parking lot of the cathedral. The bells tolled pleasantly. The same song they had played for years, she could very nearly hum it to herself. She found herself doing so idly as her eyes slid closed, hands tightening on the steering wheel. The sharp, clear clanging of the bells vibrated through her very being, piercing her with memories of clasping her mother’s hand as they walked through the open front doors of the church. The way her mother had always smiled so pleasantly at everyone, had spoken softly and kindly, had greeted the priest with such cordial kindness. All the while her nails had dug deep into Mary’s skin.

Mary’s eyes flashed open. Her hands fell to her sides. Mother was no longer there.

Her attention was caught on the two angelic blonde heads that raced through the lawn of the Catholic church. The Daniels twins, Ralph and Nathan. They were beautiful in their seven-year-old innocence. They were blinding with their white button-ups and khaki pants and porcelain complexions. She remembered their baptism fondly, could hardly believe so many years had passed since their birth already.

Time twisted on too quickly…

And if the twins were there then…Mary swallowed roughly.

How perfect they were. Mr. and Mrs. Daniels.

They had arrived about ten years back after Mr. Daniels senior had died.

Mr. Jonathan Daniels was the town banker. He was statuesque and handsome with kind blue eyes and dark hair that was always perfectly waved and combed. He was the picturesque man, husband, person. He smiled with his eyes when he greeted people and his gaze was blinding. He carried himself with such a sense of ease and lightness and it only made sense that _she_ should be at his side.

She, Mrs. Alice Daniels. The doting wife, whose brilliant blonde hair was curled and coifed in the latest style, whose white Sunday dress clung about her buxom chest, pressed in about her thin waist and then flared out at the bottom. She looked like the Virgin Mary, a heavenly image, just stepped out of a gaudy fashion magazine. She moved with grace and ease and poise.

Mrs. Daniels smiled at her boys as they raced about. Carefully leaning down, she reached out for them, called them to her and they obeyed. She reigned them in with a kind, gentle smile on her pink stained lips. Mary’s eyes followed the way that her body curved as she stooped for her children, as she pulled them against her breast.

She kissed their temples and Mr. Daniels placed a hand on either boy’s shoulder, guiding them into the doors of the church.

Mary could not move, found that she had not breathed, could not breathe until the family had disappeared into the entrance of the building.

The tight fists her hands had found themselves in released at her sides.

She would have to get out of the car and she did not understand her hesitancy to do so. The church, this familiar cathedral with its ornate décor that stood proudly at the heart of Greendale, had been her habit of forty-nine years. Yes, she supposed that _habit_ was the right word to describe it. She did not find that it was comparable to a dependency, a need and yet she found a certain solace within its decorative walls. A familiarity that she depended upon to carry her through.

Every Sunday she drove the same winding path from the cottage, down the same road that turned into town, past the high school, turning left at the post office, past the library and there it was. This stately building in which she had been baptized, had very nearly been raised. Year after year. She returned. Mother at her side. Mother holding her hand. Mother speaking to her kindly and patiently before the priest.

Mother’s funeral.

Mary reached for her purse in the passenger seat of her trusty 48’ Chevrolet. She had admired the deep green lacquered pant in the car lot. It had mesmerized her and she had purchased it and cared for it since.

She got out of the car and pushed the door closed, looking at the building before her. She should feel grateful for what it was the church offered her, for the grace and love that God gave, for the forgiveness of her sins. And her eyes fell closed as she crossed herself as if trying to ward off the memories of her sins from the past week.

She strode across the street and walked up the sidewalk towards the priest who stood at the door greeting his parishioners. “Miss Wardwell, so lovely to see you this morning. As always.”

She smiled at his cordial greeting, straightening her glasses on her nose before accepting the hand that he offered to her. “Good morning, Father.”

“Is everything alright, my child? I have not heard you in confessional for some weeks.” He asked, his voice softening. Words meant only for her to hear, as if he were doing her some great service of lowering his voice.

Her cheeks flushed bright red. She had been remiss. “Yes, Father. I - I’ve only been busy – what with the new school year and all.” She mumbled, dropped his hand, adjusted her glasses again.

Father Patrick smiled kindly. “Of course. I understand how it can be, only – as you know – it is our duty to unload our burdens upon our Holy Father. The Lord is awaiting your sins.”

“Y-yes. Yes…I shall not…keep him…waiting.” Mary forced a smile in his direction and felt a strange sense of relief wash over her when Father Patrick turned to greet another family.

Her cheeks burned. Burned in shame and humiliation.

She walked rigidly to the pew – the tenth from the front on the left side. She knelt and crossed herself before sitting in the well-worn bench. She could almost feel the presence of her mother at her side.

The organist was softly playing _Immaculate Mary_ , she recognized the curve of the familiar phrases.

Immaculate. No, she certainly was not immaculate as the Virgin Mary had been.

Her heart sank lower and lower the more reverberation came from the low pedals of the giant organ. She could feel it pulsing throughout her entire body, probing her to know her deepest secrets, her deepest sins.

She had not been to confession for weeks because she had been horrified. The evening – the thunderstorm – the mild panic she had felt, a need to be comforted, to be consoled, to make the urge, the _want_ dissolve. She thought if she could voice it, if she could name it then it would vanish. She spoke the words through the confessional and had felt immediate fear and pain well up inside of her. Father Patrick had asked for more detail but she could not give it to him, too ashamed to have confessed the little that she had. For if he, if God knew…

She had fasted for two days. She had almost fainted at school that Tuesday. She had followed the hail Mary’s that had been ascribed to her. She had tried to wash it away, but she had not been able to.

Nor had she been able to return to the confessional.

She had said too much.

She knew it was sacrilege and yet she could not find it in herself to atone for her sins. It was as if she were letting them mount, store up for the next time she might be able to face the confessional. Then she would atone. She would fast for a week, she would say her prayers for a month, she would do all that had to be done to absolve her sinfulness.

But now she could not.

And the guilt rolled over her.

Continued to wash over her like baptismal water as she looked up and found Mrs. Jonathan Daniels seated primly at her husband’s side with the boys to her left. They sat in the arm of the cross so that when Mary looked to the front of the cathedral she had a straight view of them. Of Alice Daniels. Whose face shown rosy and bright. Whose lightness showed a firm sense of piousness.

Mary watched as Mr. Daniels lovingly took his wife’s hand into his own, the way he leaned into her side to whisper something in her ear and she smiled. Oh, her smile. How delightful it was, how free and easy for her to smile as she was. She turned, attentively to listen to her husband, to offer some playful retort which he smiled warmly at.

The Daniels were not paying attention to her – as hardly anyone at the church paid Mary much mind. There were a few elderly women who had known her mother, who often spoke with her kindly after the service, but Mary operated rather as if she were invisible. She knew the congregation about her and yet she engaged only if they engaged with her. So that hardly anyone might notice her. So that her eyes could stray, could hold on to the image of Alice as she leaned over to whisper something to her son.

So that Mary might notice how perhaps not quite church appropriate Alice’s dress was, how as her body bent down there was a spans of milky white skin that slid beneath her pristine white dress, inviting prying eyes. And shouldn’t she be more modest? She should think of the unwanted attention she may receive.

Mary watched to see just how far down Alice’s immodesty might extend.

The service began and Mary found herself horrified. Horrified for the sensation that warmed between her legs. The kneeling did not quell, nor sitting, nor standing, nor kneeling again. She spent the service attempting to look at any part of the church other than where it was the Daniels sat.

At the end of mass, Mary stood abruptly. She wished to leave – feeling as if some oppressive force were trying to suffocate her. Feeling angry with herself for having not received the peace, the message of the entire service. She could no more be in the stifling room, warm from all the bodies about her.

But there was Mrs. Martha Gains and Ms. Ethel Hofstede, smiling and pressing their hands into Mary’s and asking after Adam. Mary smiled stiffly as she repeated the same things she spoke every weekend to these women. These women who did not understand why it was that Mary had not married Adam before her mother had died.

She felt her skin growing warmer and warmer, her cardigan exceedingly warm. She wanted to be away from these women and yet they clung to her.

And then, when Mary happened to glance up, it was only a split second really, there was Mrs. Alice Daniels coming towards her.

Alice smiling at Mary with that blinding smile, wholesome and pure and kind and Mary felt overcome.

“Miss Wardwell, so lovely to see you this morning.” Alice reached for her hands, clasping them in her own.

Mary felt unclean. Felt as if this contact might somehow infect in Alice something hideous and disgusting. She wanted to pull away, knowing that her palms were sweating. The church was very overheated. And yet, Alice did not pull away from her so quickly. She clasped onto Mary so that the older women faded away.

Mary felt as if there was cotton in her ears. “G-good morning, Mrs. Daniels.” Mary formed the words carefully, uncertainly.

“That cardigan is very lovely.” Alice smiled politely as their hands came apart.

Mary looked down at herself, at the black cardigan. She felt it were a shield. But it was nice, wasn’t it? Perhaps her favorite. “T-thank you.” Mary muttered and felt like an idiot, like one of those lovesick boys she witnessed in the halls of Baxter High. All tongue-tied and confused.

Why was this happening to her now?

Her eyes swept over the top of Alice’s dress. Her tongue traced her suddenly dry bottom lip. “I must…I must be going. But it was lovely to see you.” Mary spoke quickly, shoving her glasses back up her nose, feeling her cheeks growing redder with each passing second.

“Yes, lovely to see you. Stay well!” Alice’s angelic voice called after Mary.

Mary managed to make it out into the light of day. She felt as if she could breathe again. She stumbled over an uneven patch of pavement and felt a wave of embarrassment course through her, her heart pounding when she reached the door of her Chevrolet, pulling it opened. She threw her purse onto the passenger seat, her hands clasping tightly about the wheel.

There it was. That annoying sensation. That horrible, awful feeling that overcame her of its own volition.

She started the ignition and she drove. She drove away from the cathedral, back through Greendale, to the winding road that would take her home. But she could scarcely make it that far. There was a turn off, just around a bend. Her tires crunched over gravel, she parked the car and clasped the steering wheel tighter. “No.” She spoke to herself. No, she should put the car in reverse and aim it towards her home.

But her home seemed an even greater temptation.

Her thighs pressed tightly together. She groaned, frustration overcoming her. It was animalistic, wild.

Her hand pressed between her legs, seeking some relief from this disgusting feeling that had settled low in her being. She rocked against her hand, creasing her dress between her legs. It drove her wild.

She had no control, absolutely no control.

Until she heard an engine ambling its way down the road.

Her hand shot away from between her legs and she felt her heart pounding in fear. Fear of being seen, of being known. She watched in the rearview mirror as the car appeared. She held her breath, hoping and praying that it would not stop, would not see her car hidden away.

The car, fortunately, continued past the bend, oblivious to her. Did not even take notice of the green car which perhaps blended into the nature surrounding her.

She exhaled a shaky breath. She had been spared, some small mercy from the disastrous morning. 

Her fingers clutched at her steering wheel, heart racing but this time out of a fear. Fear which muted the sensation between her legs.

She put the car in reverse. She made it home. She made it inside of the cottage. She moved as if on autopilot. To turn on the radio to hear a cello concerto playing. Into the kitchen to open the refrigerator, to pull out some vegetables for a salad. She worked methodically.

She had been close, but she had not gone over, she had stopped it. She could stop it. These feelings, so inappropriate on a Sunday. Sunday, of all days.

She wanted to smoke and the thought disgusted her further.

She sat at the table and she tried to read _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter_ as she picked at her salad. Only she kept losing her place and continued to reread the same, inconsequential sentence over and over again.

She washed her dishes. She carried the book to the living room and tried to find it as fascinating as she had the day before and yet her mind could do nothing but wander. Wander to the sensuous curves, the white bodice, the soft, pale skin, the soft blonde hair, those caramel eyes – so close to her! - that had looked at her – her! - , the mellifluous voice that had spoken to her, addressed _her_ , the hand which had held hers.

She slammed the book closed.

This would not do.

She stood from her chair, listened as her hips cracked a bit so that she had to stretch to iron out the kinks of her body.

She stood but she did not know why she had stood. Whether it was to place motion in her body, or to simply remove herself from the temptation of sitting…but she was standing with nowhere to go.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

The papers were graded.

Her mind was too preoccupied to focus on her novel.

The garden was tended.

The house was as immaculate as it had been the day before.

She paced before the fireplace, pausing to look out the window upon her front lawn, to see the driveway stretch out through trees, to the quiet country road that flowed past, which she could not see through the foliage. Sometimes she wondered why she stayed so secluded. So apart from the world.

She turned back to the sitting room. She rubbed at her chin. Her eyes fell upon the cross above the fireplace. The cross that guarded and shielded and protected and hid all that went on within the cottage. It had hung above fireplaces since her birth. She had watched it warily, knowing what it symbolized, what it meant.

It watched her every move, it policed her.

But it did not keep her from sin.

The sun was setting.

The radio symphony crescendoed to some pleasing climax and Mary felt herself propelled forward. She _needed_ , but the sun was still high in the sky so she refused to veer towards her bedroom. She moved to the study, to her desk.

Standing, she pulled open the left drawer as far as it would come out and reached for the pack of cigarettes, matches, the ashtray. Her stomach twisted in disgust as she tapped out a cigarette, lighting it with a shaky hand, a cloud of smoke exhaled before her eyes.

She rubbed at her face, pulled her glasses off so that perhaps the world would blur and obscure and fade away. So that the world might not see what it was she was doing.

She lifted the ashtray from the desk and walked back to the living room so that she could settle atop the armchair. Her body relaxed down into its recesses and she puffed decadently, exhaling clouds of smoke to the ceiling as the orchestra played on. She listened blindly to the intricacies of the chords, the way all the instruments flowed and melded and melted together into one coherent work. Something that stirred her deeply, something she felt deep in her soul. A twist, a turn, a change of keys.

She tapped off ash. She inhaled again, drawing the smoke deeper, deeper.

The music was beautiful. The smoke made her feel lightheaded, made the sensations in her body magnify.

But she couldn’t. She was already indulging in one vice.

She inhaled and thought of Alice Daniels. Of her gentle face. Her kind smile. Her smooth, soft skin. The ample stretch of her bosom. The hint of breasts as she’d leaned towards her son.

“Oh!” Mary cried into the still air about her as she sat up straight in her chair.

Ash fell against her skirt and she realized she was at the end of her cigarette.

She crushed it out, her hands then feeling restless. Needing something to do.

No, she should not indulge…but nor could she smoke the last of her cigarettes. One was her limit. One a day meant that she was not addicted, that she did not really _need_ them.

And yet the bedroom beckoned to her.

So she stood up and went to the study. She pulled out the final cigarette, tossing the carton into the wastebasket, atop her aborted letters and ash. She lit the cigarette with a calmer hand, tossing the matchbook into the top drawer and slamming it shut.

This was it. This was her final one and she would never smoke again. She promised herself that. She would indulge just once more and then…

She wondered through her house smoking. Pointedly avoiding the bedroom.

She noticed Tigger out front of her house. She moved into the kitchen, placing the cigarette between her lips as she poured cat food into a bowl and then moved to the front door, opening it to the fresh air of the evening.

“Hey there, beautiful boy.” Mary whispered as she bent to set down the food, to pet his head. He rubbed happily at her before taking her up on her food offering. There was something good that she had done that day. Some positive.

She straightened, tapped ash from the end of her cigarette and stared down the driveway as she smoked. Looking as if she might be expecting someone, yet she knew no one was coming.

Tigger threaded himself through her legs. His fur was soft, his body warm.

She inhaled shakily, glancing to the sky.

She reached the end of her cigarette. She stubbed it out beneath her moccasin.

She did not want to return inside of her cottage. For if she did…

She stood on her front porch watching as the sun began to make its descent. Her head spun, dazzled by the beautiful colors it began to make in the sky. The brilliant yellows, the way it faded from pinks to blues to purples.

The phone rang and she startled. She looked at her watch. Who would be phoning at five in the evening?

She moved back into the cottage to the device. It rang out, needing attention. She reached for the receiver, feeling guilty for the taste of smoke on her lips, the wetness that clung between her legs. “H-hello?” She asked quietly.

“Mary! Mary, darling. Is that really you?”

“A-Adam?” Mary whispered.

“Yes, darling. I’m calling from London. It’s terribly late here, but I had to phone you.”

“London?” Mary gasped.

“Yes, they moved us out of Germany for now. It all happened very quickly, but I will be here now for some time. I just thought you should know. I have a new address.”

“Oh,” Mary leaned against the wall, guilty for the way in which her body was reacting – or rather not reacting – to the excitement in his tone. She swallowed. “That’s wonderful, Adam.”

“Yes! Listen, I can’t talk long, but I just wanted to hear your voice. They gave us each a call and I…I wanted to hear from you.”

Mary pressed her hand against the wall, watching as her fingers spread and then contracted. Oh, how her stomach knotted. “It – it was lovely of you to call, Adam. Lovely…thank you.” She forced some enthusiasm into her tone.

She heard someone talking on the other end, muted voices and then Adam’s muffled reply and then he was back on the line, “I look forward to your next letter, Mary. I – I want to know how you’ve been only I must be off now. I’ll try again next weekend.”

“Yes – yes, of course. Next weekend.”

“I love you, Mary.” Adam cried absently.

“Yes.” Mary whispered, her throat tightening.

“Goodbye for now, darling!”

And then the phone line went dead.

Mary slowly hung up the receiver. A twisted pain splintered in her chest and she let her shoulder blades collapse back against the wall. _“I love you, Mary.”_ Oh, how she wished he would not say that.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, hand moving to her chest as if she could steady her beating heart by touching it. She wondered if he would have known that she had been off, that she had been distracted, a million miles away…

And she felt upset with herself. Upset that she allowed herself to daydream about impossibilities, to get herself so decadently worked up, to indulge so carelessly…

Her eyes opened and she could make out her bed from where she stood.

She could not be in this house another moment.

She reached for her glasses, a cardigan, her purse, her keys. She left the cottage, got into her car.

There was a convenience store two towns over that would be open on a Sunday evening.

She drove, fingers clasping at the steering wheel, eyes focused straight ahead.

The store was far enough away that no one really knew her. It was outside the Greendale jurisdiction. She would not be seen, nor found out. There was a safety in her anonymity here in Tuckahoe.

The bad fluorescent lighting was blinding when she stepped into the store. She winced at the pain of the spotlight, felt herself shrivel at how very visible she was. She walked awkwardly to the counter, to the man in the greasy white button-up, who sat smoking a cigarette carelessly out the side of his mouth while he half-eyed her and half-eyed the television set up next to him.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” He half-heartedly asked.

“Philip Morris, please.” She whispered.

He eyed her up and down. She had seen him before. He had seen her before.

She lowered her head, smoothed a hand over her lacquered up do. Masking herself.

“25 cents.” He gruffly spoke.

She handed him over a quarter and took the pack from him, exiting as hastily as she had arrived.

The sun had set by the time she returned to the cottage. The rooms were dark. The radio still playing. Something stormy and dark.

She stacked the cigarettes, returned to the office to retrieve her matches and lit one. Restless. She tossed the pack and matches to the furthest corner of the drawer and slammed it shut with her hips.

She returned to her chair in the living room and sat atop it. Staring blankly at the wall. The need rising within her, welling up higher and higher. Tempting her, daring her, taunting her.

The room around her was dark save for the hallway light.

Her legs had come crudely apart as she slouched in the chair.

_“Ladies never slouch. Ladies keep their legs crossed and closed.”_

The words haunted her as she fingered the chain absently about her neck.

She did not move to correct her posture.

She smoked.

She smoothed a hand over her thigh. Her skin reacted to the touch.

Her pantyhose were delightfully tight. But she longed for them to be removed. Her fingers worked up under her skirt, lifting her hips to push, shifting awkwardly to push them downwards, to reveal her soft flesh devoid of the nylon. It slid, satiny down her legs, she stepped from them, tossing them to the side.

Sitting up, she could feel the wetness between her legs, now unhindered by the tight clothing. She brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply.

Her eyes landed on the cross.

She took off her glasses and the room swirled into darkness.

Her hand traveled between her legs and she whimpered as her fingers met with soaked folds, traveled over the tender flesh that throbbed between her legs. She rubbed, gone, lost to the night. Lost to her sins.

And she gave in exquisitely. Decadently. Insatiably.

Until later she found herself before the toilet retching up the slight contents of her stomach, tears streaming down her face.

How had she given in? How could she have done this to herself?

She cleaned herself up without meeting her eyes in the mirror. She put on her cotton nightgown and she kneeled at the edge of her bed and she prayed. She prayed and prayed until her knees went numb and began to hurt.

And then she put herself to bed without supper.


	3. School Days

School Days

“…the symbolism is quite glaring throughout, if you know how to look for it. Take for instance the rose bush that Hawthorne spends a great deal of time exploring in the first chapter. What do you think that might symbolize?” Mary pushed her glasses up her nose and glanced up to her third period pupils.

She was met with dead gazes.

Her heart sank in her chest.

The boys looked strangely confused and the girls remained tight-lipped. A bit intrigued, a bit put off.

_The Scarlet Letter_.

A literary classic. And every year Mary seemed to look forward to this particular novel with great anticipation. As if titillated by the fact that it was standard reading for the eleventh grade at Baxter High. The first year she had taught the book she had fumbled her way through the presentation of the materials, frightened that with the slightest miscommunication it may seem as if she condoned such willful behavior in a woman, in a religious man.

She could not say that she sympathized with Hester Prynne. The protagonist had indulged in sin, in lust with a religious leader, no less. A child had been born of this union, marring her reputation, bringing upon her shame and guilt.

And yet the students before her remained strangely quiet after reading through the prologue and first chapter. As if processing what it was that had gotten Hester into the predicament in which she found herself at the opening of the novel.

“She got knocked up out of wedlock?” Jeffrey Mitchell, looking much too pleased with himself, inquired.

Several boys around him snickered at the comment.

Mary felt a migraine descending upon her. “That’s – that’s not the question I asked.”

“Yeah, but that’s what the story is about.” Kenneth Jones interjected with a pleased little smile.

Mary lowered her head in a nod. “Yes. Yes, I do suppose that is what the story is about. But what I am asking you about is the symbolism – “

And just as the remark was about to be spoken, the bell for lunch rang.

The teens jumped from their seats excitedly, as if relieved to be away from her, from her classroom. “Please make sure to read to chapter four so we can discuss tomorrow!” She called out, wondering if her voice even carried over the noisy teens in their rush to lunch.

She heard the lude comments pass between the boys as they went. The embarrassed way in which they joked one another, joked several of the girls as they left the room. “Hey Joyce! Maybe you need an “A” to sew on your blouse.”

“Jackson!” Mary called after the boy, but her voice was not loud enough to even reach his ears, let alone his awareness.

Joyce awkwardly sulked out of the room in a hurry, as if afraid Mary might try to console her.

And then the classroom was empty. She stared at the book atop her desk. The binding of her copy well worn.

There was something in the book that called to her, some familiarity that drew her back again and again. An understanding she had with Hester, that made her want to protect the character against the harsh remarks of the Puritans, the students.

And yet, another part of her hated Hester. Hated Nathaniel Hawthorne for creating such a fiercely miserable character who defied every convention, every religious moral Mary knew and trusted. How she despised her, her carelessness, the pride she had in holding her child so close to her chest as if Pearl were a trophy, won through some heroic battle.

But it had only been the sinful act of unmarried sex that had brought the child into the world.

Mary sank down into her desk chair and glanced at the book. What was it that so drew her to this, of any other book, studied the whole of the semester?

She happened a glance at her watch, registering the time. She would have only a moment to retrieve her lunch from the teacher’s lounge before returning to prepare for her fourth period class. To begin again the act of introducing this novel. She felt, somehow, that the next class might grasp it more readily.

She clicked her way down the hallway to the teacher’s lounge.

It was inevitable that she should find the scene laid out before her when she pushed her way awkwardly into the room. No one paid her any mind as she entered, hardly a head turned to acknowledge her existence. Often she wondered if she were invisible. She glanced down briefly and made note of her simple brown skirt over plaid stockings and green clogs. She did exist.

Mr. Kenneth Barnes, the senior English teacher and head of her department – despite his many lacking years of experience – sat amongst a gaggle of female teachers, all enthralled by his recounting of his weekend spent with his wife and new baby. He was a dark-haired man who many would say was handsome. The students and teachers alike adored him.

This Mary could not understand, for she found nothing admirable in Mr. Barnes. His conversations were shallow, the lectures she had happened upon sounded more like a social hour. And yet Principal Hawthorne had promoted the young man within a year of working at Baxter High.

“I bet little Susie will be a real looker, just like you.” Mrs. Caroline Fields’ arched eyebrow betrayed her underlying words. Her perfectly sat blonde hair curled about her aging face and yet Mr. Barnes, in his youthful beautiful, smiled upon her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the room.

“Oh, but she will look beautiful like her mother, certainly not me.” And he immodestly inclined his head ever so.

Mary rolled her eyes as she moved to retrieve the brown paper bag she had tucked neatly away in the fridge that morning before anyone had arrived. And as per usual, she found it smashed near the back of the middle rack, unrolled as if someone had carelessly opened it and then tossed it aimlessly back into the refrigerator.

The women were laughing about something as she pulled the bag from the refrigerator and examined the inside to find her egg salad sandwich somewhat crushed in its cellophane wrapping. She sighed.

She turned from the refrigerator to retreat back to her classroom, away from her mindless colleagues, and ran directly into Miss Lillian Childs. “Oh!” Mary exclaimed, feeling the sandwich bag in her hands press tightly into her stomach as Miss Childs’ body pressed uncomfortably, entirely too closely up against her own.

The contact was shocking.

Miss Childs was a gentle young thing. It was only her second year at Baxter High and she taught math to the juniors. Her green eyes were startling, her gentle brunette hair always fell in a curl that brushed at her shoulders. She was looking at Mary intently. Seeing her.

“Oh, Miss Wardwell.” The younger woman laughed a little, stepping away from her. “I didn’t see you there. Have I ruined your lunch?”

Mary lowered her head, shaking it. “No, it’s…it’s quite alright.”

“Gee, I’m awfully sorry.” Miss Childs was trying to say, but a terrible blush was creeping up, covering Mary’s entire face and she couldn’t stop it. She needed to stop it.

She shook her head and clasped her brown bag tighter, making a beeline for the teacher’s lounge door. Her head hung low as she her feet carried her swiftly away down the hallway, away from the tittering laughter that seemed to have started up again upon her hasty exit.

She walked quickly, swiftly, back to her classroom, embarrassed by the terrible run in, by the lack of control she felt. For why couldn’t she be more like her fellow teachers? Why couldn’t she simply sit at the table and fawn over Mr. Barnes and his perfect life with the others?

But that sounded dreadful. Simply dreadful. There were more important things than to talk mindlessly about nothing. Mary felt that words mattered and the words that were shared in the teacher’s lounge were nothing more than noise.

She felt a wash of relief overcome her when she returned to her classroom, when she sat down behind her desk, dropping her smashed lunch before her.

There was the feeling of Miss Childs’ pert breasts pressed against her own that lingered. No.

Mary shook her head, tried to swallow down the sensation of it, the warmth that had emanated forth from the younger teacher, had overcome her body.

The room was warm. She picked up a piece of paper to fan herself, to sweep the loose hairs off the back of her neck.

No.

Mary closed her eyes, pressing her legs together.

It would pass. It had to pass.

It was the ringing of the fourth period bell that startled her, made her heart pound just a bit faster. There had not been time to eat and even if she had wanted to, her sandwich was crushed to mush. She kept the apple from the bag and tossed the rest into the bin by her desk.

The students filtered in, rowdy from their afternoon break.

She felt herself coming back into control as she watched the students enter. Tommie and his gang made their entrance, loud, obnoxious as always as they took their usual seats at the back of the classroom. She eyed them over the top of her glasses, found Tommie was looking at her as he sat down. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments and she quickly looked away.

She glanced towards the door of the classroom, as if expecting someone in specific. She glanced at her watch, frowning. And when she looked back up she found Sabrina Spellman laughing in the doorway with her friends Susie and Harvey. Sabrina’s laughter was warm, her calm smile disarming, a restful ease within her body, the way in which she let her hand fall on Harvey’s shoulder as she spoke to him. And once Sabrina turned to fully enter the classroom her entire face alighted and she looked directly at Mary.

Their eyes met.

“Good afternoon, Miss Wardwell.” Sabrina spoke eloquently, politely.

“Good afternoon, Miss Spellman.” Mary’s voice wavered, if only briefly, and she felt her lips twist up into a smile.

Sabrina returned the smile good naturedly as she took a seat in the middle of the third row.

Mary looked down at her desk, shuffling papers unnecessarily. She fingered the cross about her neck, using it as a talisman – as if it might calm her.

The bell for class rang. The students slowly quieted down, turning their attention to her. She pushed her glasses back up her nose, standing with the pile of essays she had graded that weekend. “I would like to begin by handing out the essays from last week. Generally they were very good, though writing succinctly is truly an art form which must be practiced. Please pay close attention to the comments I have made and if you have any questions feel free to speak with me after class.”

She wove through the aisles, handing back papers as she spoke. “This week we will begin reading _The Scarlet Letter_. You should all have a copy beneath your desks. I would like for us to read the prologue followed by the first and second chapters together in class and then have a short discussion, as this work contains much symbolism and rather…uh, grown-up themes.” The class seemed intrigued by this as they pulled out the book.

She sat down Tommie’s essay atop his desk and felt oddly uncomfortable at the way he glanced up at her. She could have sworn that his eyes trailed after her and she felt exposed.

Sabrina’s essay was the last to be deposited upon her desk. Mary’s hand lingered for a moment over the page, as if regretting the B+ she had assigned the girl. She felt Sabrina look over her essay, felt her reading through the comments as she walked back to her desk.

Mary lifted her copy of _The Scarlet Letter_ and turned to lean back against her desk. “Please, Mr. Kinkle. Perhaps you would like to read “The Custom House.” Let’s all turn to page five and follow along.”

Harvey looked up, quite surprised, but cleared his throat and very seriously began the recitation of _The Scarlet Letter_ ’s prologue.

It was as Florence read the second chapter of the story – the appearance of Hester Prynne clasping her baby to her chest – that Mary found herself seated behind her desk. Her legs crossed beneath her desk. She leaned forward. Her eyes darted up from the page every once in a while, finding herself gazing briefly at Sabrina whose brow was furrowed as Florence read. Mary wondered what it was that Sabrina thought of in that moment. She wondered what it was the girl thought of the book, about the scandalous affair that had brought Hester to this public shaming. Would Sabrina condemn her?

Mary’s hand absently stroked over the front of her sweater. The sensation of Miss Childs’ body still very present in her mind. Her finger instinctively shifted to run over the skin of her wrist absently. The edge of her sweater shifted upwards until her hand collided with the bandage she had forgotten. She quickly yanked the sweater back into place and mindlessly began curling a loose strand of hair at the back of her neck around her finger.

“…she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger, to assure herself that the infant and the shame were real. Yes these were her realities – all else had vanished!” Florence emotionlessly recited the final text of the second chapter.

Mary cleared her throat, closed the book to look out at her quiet class. “Very good. Thank you, Florence.”

The girl smiled shyly.

Sabrina’s hand was raised in a matter of seconds before Mary could even begin her discussion on symbolism in Hawthorne’s writing and its relation to the romantic period of literature.

“Yes, Sabrina.” Mary nodded towards the girl.

Sabrina frowned in that rather adorable way which she had about her. A youthful indignance coloring her features. “But why did those women speak of her so terribly? What is it that she has done so wrong? It seems to me that those town’s women were envious of her.”

Mary’s eyes rose at this commentary. “Envious?”

“Yes, why else would they be so horrible to her?”

“Well,” Mary smiled uncomfortably, standing from behind her desk. “As you know this book was set in the early 1600s. For a woman to have…relations outside of marriage…why, it was an offense punishable much more severely than simply wearing an ‘A’ on the woman’s dress.”

The lines in Sabrina’s forehead did not recede at this comment. “But what if it wasn’t her fault? Or what if she truly loved the father of the child, but she couldn’t be with him?” Sabrina demanded.

Mary’s hip collided with the edge of the desk. She laughed uncomfortably. “The Puritans took such transgressions very seriously, Sabrina. It was a part of their spiritual practices and beliefs. As they are still believed today.”

“But it seems wholly unfair…to Hester.” Sabrina interjected.

“Hester made her decisions.” Mary fixed Sabrina with a pointed gaze. The rest of the classroom seemed to recede into the background.

“But she shows great courage, in spite of it.” Sabrina protested. “She is not ashamed of her child.”

“Sabrina…” Mary caught herself, the room about her swirling back into awareness. The other students were staring at her, looking at her strangely. She bowed her head to push her glasses back up her face. “Perhaps that seems true now, though we do not know how the story will end.”

The bell for the next period rang and the students reanimated around her. The awkwardness of the conversation seemed to dissipate about the others, but Sabrina was still looking at Mary, did not move to leave as quickly as the others.

“Class, please read to chapter four so that we can discuss tomorrow!” Mary called out meekly as she moved to place the desk between herself and the classroom. She felt lightheaded. She should have eaten her lunch – but then she remembered that all that was left of it was her apple.

And then she saw a plaid skirt and red sweater standing before her desk and she looked up to find Sabrina standing over her. Holding her essay.

“Miss Wardwell.” Sabrina was smiling again, her face softened from their momentary, embarrassing spat in front of the class.

“Yes, what can I do for you Sabrina?” Mary folded her hands atop her desk, steadying herself.

“I wondered if we might be able to discuss my grade on this essay. I don’t much think my Aunt Zelda will approve of this B+. Would I be able to come speak with you about it after school on Wednesday? I have cheer practice this evening and tomorrow, but perhaps…”

Mary felt something shifting in her chest. A strange tightness. “Yes. Yes, of course, Sabrina.” She nodded.

Sabrina smiled, her face angelic and serene. “Thank you, Miss Wardwell.”

Mary nodded and as Sabrina turned to leave Mary found her voice again. “You know…”

And Sabrina turned back to face her, waiting.

“It’s not your ideas that get you into trouble. Its only the precision of language that concerns me. I would…I would be very pleased to help you with that.” Mary could not meet the girl’s gaze as she spoke.

“Why, thank you. Thank you very much, Miss Wardwell.”

Mary nodded.

“Wednesday, then.”

“Yes, Wednesday.” Mary whispered.

“I have to get to class, but I…I’m very interested to know what happens to Hester.”

Mary only nodded, watched as the girl turned and practically skipped from her room. A lightness to her gait.

The next three class periods swirled by in a haze. There was a brief planning meeting headed up by Mr. Barnes after the classes were finished – in which he would run his fingers through his hair when he did not quite know what it was that he should be talking about, and Mary muttered the words that he was missing. And it was only in those moments that Mr. Barnes – looking rather annoyed with her beneath his charmingly calm demeaner – deigned to address her head-on. The rest of the time he addressed her more attentive colleagues, who clung to his unauthoritative words and lacking resolve.

Mary felt as if she could not properly breathe again until she was inside of her car headed towards her home away from Greendale proper. The car cabin brought with it a sense of comfort, a sensation of her whole self pouring back into her being.

But with the sensation came a terrible want. A horrible longing.

She thought of an item that she had not remembered until the brush of Miss Childs had awoken something inside of her. But she pushed this thought from her mind.

No, she had more control than that!

She arrived home to the decadent smell of the pot roast she had put on that morning before school. Using a bit of beef from the supermarket which she’d cooked up with some onions and spices, to which she had added carrots and potatoes from her garden, covered in a beef broth. It permeated the entire home, bringing with it a sense of comfort, of a longed-for sensation of homecoming. And for a moment her body forgot its want.

Dropping her handbag and satchel atop a chair at her kitchen table, she moved to turn on the classical radio station – something by Haydn – and then went into the kitchen to lift the lid of the roast, to inhale its fragrance, to test the doneness of the meat with a spatula. The beef fell apart with only a slight poke. It would be done soon.

She settled the lid back onto the pan and moved to change from the clothes she had worn that day. In the privacy of her bedroom, she pulled her stockings from her waist and a small gasp escaped from between her lips as the moist sensation between her thighs became more apparent. It would not do, her underwear soaked.

Fighting off the urge to touch, she carefully hung her skirt in the closet, tossing her sweater into the dirty clothes hamper along with her soaked undergarments. And as she turned, she found herself facing herself in her full-length mirror. Horrified by her own nakedness, save for the cross that gleamed about her neck.

She studied the muscular curve of her thighs, moving upwards to the patch between her legs that glistened in the dimming light of day. Her finger mindlessly traced the same pattern her eyes had, running upwards from her thigh, trailing lightly up her slit until she hit a particularly sensitive nerve.

She gasped, dropped her hand at her own lewdness.

She escaped to the shower, to wash herself clean, careful of the tenderness between her legs.

She redressed in clean underclothes and a simple cotton housedress and her moccasins.

She forced herself back to the kitchen and hummed along to the piano concerto that played – was it Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5? – while pulling out the ingredients for an upside pineapple cake. She had purchased a pineapple on a whim the week before and knowing that it would go bad if she did not use it, she sat to the mindless, busy task of baking.

The mixing and measuring and stirring, and cutting, and arranging kept her occupied. For the most part. She thought only of the item she knew to be hidden away in the far recessed of her desk drawer only a time or two more.

She put the cake into the oven as she removed the roast from the stove.

She listened to the radio, to the evening birds outside her window as she ate quietly. Willing herself to be content in the moment, to not give into her impulses.

She thought of Sabrina. Of her indignance that day. How she had so boldly questioned and prodded Hester Prynne’s sinful behavior. How she had practically _defended_ the woman against her misdeed.

It was a brilliant mind, Mary knew this. And yet she could not reconcile Sabrina’s comments with her own understanding. Hester had committed a sin that went against her community, against herself in many ways. She deserved the punishment that was given to her. Mary knew this to be true – and yet Sabrina’s insights intrigued her.

To think that those Puritan women could possibly _envy_ Hester…envy her life of isolation, of separation from society. No, that should certainly not be envied.

Mary stood from the table, clearing away her dish, putting away the leftover pot roast for the rest of the week. She pulled the cake from the oven, poked it with a toothpick and deemed it finished. She brought the cake out the rest of the way and sat it to rest atop the oven, the aroma tantalizing about her.

The radio switched over to nighttime jazz. It was Kay Starr singing “Allez-vous-en”…

_”…allez-vous-en, please go away, mon petite…or I may go away with you…”_

Mary hummed mindlessly along, taking up her book, to sit in her favorite chair, to let the cake cool before she extracted it from the pan. She opened the book to where she had last left off, her eyes wandering over the pages, but her mind a million miles away.

Distracted. Lost to the contents she knew to be hidden away in her desk drawers. Her mind journeyed away from the book’s pages. Taunting her to close its pages, tugging her to stand. And yet she re-read the same few lines over and over again blankly.

_“You know I always said this: If a child is kept clean and well cared for and pretty then that child will usually be sweet and smart. But if a child’s dirty and ugly then you can’t expect anything much.”_

Her eyes shifted to the cross above the mantel. It looked just a bit crooked. Normally she would stand and straighten it, but she made no move to do so.

Her eyes fell upon the clock. The cake would be cool.

She closed the book, left it atop the chair. She padded to the kitchen as Les Baxter’s orchestra played some strange arrangement of “I love Paris”. It must be a musical hour devoted to Cole Porter’s musical _Can-Can_. She listened and hummed along as she lifted the pan from the oven top and carefully flipped it atop a waiting cake dish. She tapped the bottom of it gently a few times and when she felt the cake dislodge itself, she lifted the pan to reveal the intricate pineapple design she had created. She admired its strange geometric patterns, the perfect layering.

It was still warm.

She sliced the perfect piece for herself and covered the rest.

She ate the cake standing at the kitchen counter, staring out at the darkening night that lay beyond the kitchen windows. She could make out the moon through the trees that swayed ever so slightly in the light breeze of dusk.

The cake was delicious. The perfect post-dinner treat after her afternoon of only consuming an apple.

The apple. The collision. She thought of it as she scrubbed her dish and the cake pan clean in the sink.

As she dried the pan she realized that her nipples were standing at attention. Pulled tightly, pressing against the material of her dress.

She returned the pan to its rightful place. She moved as if to return to the living room, to her book, but her feet seemed to carry her in the opposite direction. She moved blindly into her study. She snapped on the desk lamp, light pouring over the immaculate surface. Her body was tightly wound as she sat upon her chair.

She closed her eyes, clasped her hands together as if in prayer. She fingered the cross about her neck. Willing herself to not give in, to not indulge in these sinful urges.

But her hand betrayed her as she opened the top left drawer, as she pulled out the fresh pack of cigarettes, the matches, the ashtray from Colorado. She closed the top drawer again, hand hovering in mid-air.

She knew where it was, stashed away behind some old school files. She knew it would be there and she was a hypocrite to have kept it. She should have turned it into Principal Hawthorne, she should have allowed the boys to get in trouble because it was quite despicable and insulting to women and school was no place at all to have such a thing…

…and yet she knew it was still there.

No, she should not.

Instead her hand went to the pack of cigarettes, taking one from the package to place between her lips, a match from the box to strike into flame along the side of the box. She lighted the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Perhaps it would suffice to calm her.

She opened the top drawer, tossing away the pack, the matchbox into the back recesses.

Leaning back in the office chair, she inhaled and looked at the framed portraits she kept at the edge of the desk. Of her as a child, of her mother clasping her shoulders. She inhaled more deeply, lifting the photograph to examine it more closely. It was her mother’s hands. The way they dug into, causing her jacket to crease ever so…

Mary placed the frame face down, tapping ash from her cigarette.

Her arm brushed over a swollen breast and her breath caught in her throat.

The sticky wet sensation had returned between her legs. She rubbed her thighs together. Disgusted.

It was a split-second decision really. To open the bottom drawer, to let her fingers glide over unimportant files and documents until she clasped the glossy smoothness of its edge. She lifted it from its hidden spot, the image on the front making her eyes widen.

She smoked. She turned the page to the center fold, to the girl atop a powder blue poof, looking so innocent save for her lack of dress. Her nipples were pink, well pronounced. Mary regarded the obscene image, feeling her own breasts only straining further.

Her hand mindlessly slid from the glossy page to the top of her housedress, to the buttons that began at her neck. One by one she undid them, right down past her sternum. She paused, she smoked.

Her hand slid inside of the material of her dress and she whimpered when her head slid over her breast, fondled at her pert nipple, rolling it beneath her finger ever so slightly, lightly. Her legs pressed tighter together.

The woman on the page before her had her legs strategically crossed so that it was only her breasts that were visible on her naked body. Mary’s eyes slid to the top of a thigh which hid what lay beneath and Mary seemed suddenly fixated on what it was the woman would look like. How if she were to have just moved her legs apart…

It became too much and yet not enough.

Her hand slipped from the top of her dress to pull upwards at the hem of the skirt. Her fingers found warmth between her legs, slipped beneath cotton panties to find slippery wetness which she swirled her finger through, pressing over the throbbing bundle of nerves as if she were discovering the place that lay between this beautiful woman’s legs.

Ash fell from her cigarette. She smoked distractedly, brushing her other nipple with the hand that held the cigarette ever so briefly.

And then her fingers curled pleasantly inside of herself as she spread her legs ever so much wider. Wanting to be inside, needing the feel of it.

Her hand emerged to rub diligently, wantonly, hurriedly against herself, for she could not hold herself back any longer.

She orgasmed, her legs slamming together about her own hand, leaning forwards, over the vulgar image before her. Her cries were mangled, as if caught in her throat.

She rested her cheek against the magazine, breathing heavily.

Ash fell from her cigarette.

She brought the diminished cigarette to her lips and inhaled before crushing out the butt.

It was ugly, this.

Her dress front hung open, a cool breeze swept over her bare breasts and it was a different sensation than before. Something less pleasurable.

She coughed.

She removed her hand.

She sat up and pulled her dress about her exposed body, staring bewildered at the pornographic image before her.

Hypocrite. She was a hypocrite.

Hastily she stashed the magazine roughly into the back of the drawer and stood to clean herself of her filth.


	4. Questions

Questions

“But why wouldn’t Chillingworth simply claim Pearl as his daughter to spare Hester this ridicule?” Sabrina persisted.

Mary let her finger trace over her forehead, exasperated by the endless questions. Questions no student before had ever dared, or perhaps really cared to inquire about. She opened her mouth, but it seemed Sabrina was not yet finished.

“It seems like he’s only concerned about his own reputation and defending his own honor. It’s like he doesn’t even really care about her at all. Why would he have married her if he didn’t intend on being with her?” The questions came relentlessly and Mary felt her lips part to speak and then press into a thin line each time a new question was posed.

The bell to end class rang and Mary felt she had been left in the midst of a swirling tornado of unanswerable words.

“These are all very good questions, Sabrina. Please – EVERYONE! – read to chapter eight for tomorrow. Perhaps we can discuss further.” Mary tried to grasp at the students as they filtered from her classroom.

Sabrina hovered for a moment, meeting Mary’s eyes for the briefest moment. A smile was exchanged between them, a parting acknowledgement. And then Mary watched as Harvey’s hand came to rest on the small of Sabrina’s back, he leaned in intimately to whisper something to her and the young blonde girl nodded, smiled up at him with wide, brilliant eyes.

There was an ease to the way in which she let her body lean up against his, an intimacy that passed between them.

Mary lowered her eyes, turned to retreat behind her desk, to sit in her chair and straighten her papers in order to prepare for her tenth-grade grammar class that came next.

“I’ll see you after school, Miss Wardwell.” Sabrina’s voice called back to her and she looked up to catch a glimpse of Sabrina at the classroom door with Harvey’s arm about her. But Sabrina’s eyes were firmly upon her.

“Yes.” Mary nodded, swallowed, watched as Sabrina disappeared from the doorway. Two younger girls, Jackie and Ellen, brushed into the classroom in her wake. They smiled unseeingly at Mary and continued on whispering together as they took their seats in the middle side of the classroom.

Mary pulled at her collar, scratched at the base of her neck, staring down at the notes she had made to herself for the remaining classes of the day.

Grammar. She enjoyed grammar. The parts of speech that fell together into knowable patterns. The way that certain words could fit into very specific categories, strung together to form ideas, phrases, thoughts, ideas. And yet when, at once, one thought they knew how a word functioned, it could alter, could become something else, something that it was not.

The exceptions enthralled her. The way that a word like “need” might imply a possessive ownership in its noun form and yet could shift into some actionable verb. To need something was both its own desire and something that could be strived towards.

Perhaps the children in their seats did not find what it was she taught as interesting as she– and she knew from her own experience that they would not fully comprehend the importance of her words until much later – but she slid easily into her lessons. Hardly thinking at all about her meeting with Miss Spellman that would follow her final class of the day.

She was not certain, within the last few minutes of her last class, why it was that her stomach knotted. Why she felt strangely nervous when the dismissal bell for the day rang out. And she took eraser to chalkboard and began erasing away the sentences she had constructed with the unwilling help of her restless class.

She listened until the classroom fell silent, the noise in the hallway receded into a few dull hums of children with after school activities. It was sometimes this moment that she enjoyed most, particularly after a day of classes that had run smoothly.

She sat the eraser down, glanced at the clock. It had only been five minutes since the bell and yet it felt an eternity.

She sat at her desk, lifted the quizzes that would need to be graded and sat to work on the first in the pile. A disappointment welled up inside of her as she slashed through the first five answers. Mitchell had not gleaned the concepts she had been teaching. Though, Mitchell hardly ever did well on quizzes. She sighed and lifted the next one, feeling slightly encouraged when only the first three were incorrect.

It was a slight hint of something flowery and light that first alerted her to the fact that a presence was lingering in the classroom doorway. She looked up, pushing her glasses back up to see Sabrina smiling as she made her way into the room.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.” Sabrina offered as she moved towards the front of the classroom, sitting down in a front row seat and dropping her bag to rummage through it for the essay she had come to discuss and a pencil that she twirled absently about in her hand.

Mary shook her head. “Not at all.”

“Aunt Zelda was not pleased with me about this, but I told her I was going to talk with you today. I should have let her look it over, only she’s always so busy with the mortuary. And Auntie Hilda likes to read well enough, but not academic papers – oh…” Sabrina caught herself as she rambled, meeting Mary’s amused smile. “We should get to the paper, shouldn’t we?”

Mary sat down her pen and rose from the desk. She had enjoyed Sabrina’s long-winded monologue. Had found it quite amusing. She was quite certain the girl never tired of things to say. “It’s quite alright, Sabrina.” Mary consoled as she came to stand before her desk, looking down at the girl, at the paper between them.

They were meant to get down to business, weren’t they?

“It’s not that the paper was bad. As I said, the ideas were well throughout. I think your points are very engaging and relevant to the text, only your thesis statement was weak.”

“But you said that a thesis should state what the paper is about.”

“Yes, but read the beginning of your thesis.” Mary pulled off her glasses. A streak had formed on the lens. She rubbed at it against the material of her sweater.

Sabrina held up her paper. “ _In this essay, I will discuss how_...”

“Do you see how you have broken the rules of good thesis writing already?” Mary stopped her there, feeling very much in her element. Knowing full well that Sabrina was a student who could handle this criticism, would know just how to fix her errors and not error again.

“But it’s an essay and I’m showing what points I want to make.” Sabrina’s brow furrowed.

“It’s a lazy approach to doing so. They always say ‘show, don’t tell’ and that opening is telling the audience instead of showing them. And what have we discussed about using first person in an essay?”

Sabrina bit at her lip as she re-read what it was she had done. “It makes the paper seem biased to the writer’s perspective.”

Mary smiled warmly, relieved to know that at least one pupil had been listening to her lectures.

“I wish I’d had you last year for grammar.” Sabrina sighed as she scribbled some notes on the page. “Let me see if I could rephrase it again, make it flow a little better.”

Mary nodded, allowed the girl to reformulate her thoughts as she pushed herself from before the desk, moved to sit again, to take up the quizzes again. Brian missed the first four. She brushed loose hair from her forehead, glanced up to watch as Sabrina concentrated on the paper before her. There was a determined little crease in her forehead.

“What about this?” Sabrina looked up, right into Mary’s eyes.

“Let me see.” Mary stood again, moved to take the desk besides Sabrina’s.

The girl moved her desk ever so much closer to Mary, to place the essay in her hands. Her hair smelled of apples, Mary noted as she took the paper,

Sabrina watched her intently as she read. As if watching for a reaction to what she had just done.

The scrutiny made it hard for Mary to concentrate. She had to reread the sentence through several times before she grasped what it was Sabrina had done. And she had done it well. “Yes, this is much better.” She sat the paper down upon the desk before her. “It is much more persuasive and engaging. It doesn’t feel as if you are forcing your thoughts and ideas on the reader. It simply demonstrates your premise.” She spoke and as she spoke she lifted her head and found that Sabrina was smiling widely, very near to her, watching her as she spoke. So intently. So closely.

Mary’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed. She looked away from Sabrina. Back to the paper. She smoothed her hands over the red stained pages. “You…you also tend to…to misuse words. See, here….” She pointed and her hand shook ever so. 

Sabrina followed her gesture, noticed the slight unsteadiness in her hand. “Are you…are you alright, Miss Wardwell?” Sabrina asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Mary spoke quickly, bowing her head so that the girl might not see the redness that had risen to her cheeks. “Yes, I would…I would look through the notes I left for you. I think it will be helpful.” Mary handed the paper back to Sabrina, stood from the student desk, pulling herself back up to her full height. She looked at the chalkboard, eyes sliding closed in self-loathing.

“I know I will do better on the next essay.” Sabrina’s small voice insisted behind her.

“Yes.” Mary closed her eyes, bowed her head, trying to control whatever strange uneasiness had just passed through her. Finding her composure again, she turned to Sabrina with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. Her hands folded together in front of her body. “Yes. Yes, of course. I know that you will.”

Sabrina continued to regard her. To watch her closely. As if she intended on pursuing her earlier question. Mary willed her to not notice the awkwardness, wished that she would simply leave the classroom and let it go.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sabrina held the paper in her hands.

Mary nodded up and down, forcing her smile as best she could. “Yes.” It was a whisper, but it was an audible answer.

Sabrina did not look as if she believed it, but she moved to stuff her essay back into her bag, to place her pen away.

Mary suddenly did not wish for her to leave. But it was foolish.

“Th-thank you for the help.” Sabrina stood, shouldered her bookbag. “I wondered if…well, could we possibly meet again next week to go over the next essay before it’s due?”

Mary nodded. “Y-yes. If you would like.”

“I would like that. Thank you!” Sabrina smiled again and there was something carefree, encouraging about the lightness in her expression.

Mary found herself smiling in turn. “Next week then.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sabrina lingered for a moment more, as if she intended on staying, but then Mary realized there was a figure standing in the doorway.

She looked up, heart racing in her chest.

It was Harvey. He looked at her guiltily, as if feeling bad for interrupting student and teacher.

Sabrina followed her line of vision, seeing Harvey standing there waiting for her. “Oh!”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt…” Harvey drove his toe into the ground.

“No, we are finished.” Mary spoke firmly, relief washing over her as she moved further away from Sabrina to retreat to her desk. Her pulse was racing.

“Thanks again, Miss Wardwell!” Sabrina cried as she turned to leave, to go with – whom Mary presumed to be was – her boyfriend. For they seemed inseparable. The two of them. Always talking, touching, passing notes when they didn’t think she was watching.

She listened as she heard them talk and laugh as they walked down the hallway. Light, free.

She looked back down at the quizzes that remained on her desk. She felt a million miles away.

She paused to look out the classroom windows upon the serene autumn day. The trees were changing, preparing for winter. She smiled to herself, for this was her favorite time of year.

Sabrina would come again the following week.

She hoped that her hand would not shake, she hoped that the girl would not look at her so closely.

She stayed at her desk until the last quiz was graded. There was only one pupil who had succeeded in only getting one answer wrong.

She stood from her desk and stretched out her back, massaged at her wrists. The school was quiet about her. There was a calm to it, a peace, a sense of control invaded her being.

She pulled on her jacket, gathered her papers into her satchel, and then clicked her way out of the school, into the aromatic evening. It smelled of distant bonfires, leaves, fall.

Driving home, Mary felt her shoulders release, an ease return to her as she hummed absently to some familiar song that played on the radio. She arrived to her cottage in the woods and felt oddly content, as if by helping Sabrina, by having that moment together something had released within her.

She heated up the leftover pot roast atop the stove and sat down at the kitchen table. She stared mindlessly out the kitchen windows to the woods that stretched on and on.

Sabrina’s eager, determined face returned to her. The way her brow had furrowed earlier that day in class as she’d inquired about _The Scarlet Letter_ , her questions coming like rapid fire and Mary not even knowing where to begin.

Why hadn’t Chillingworth claimed Pearl as his own?

Mary sighed, for it would have cleared so many things up for Hester, made easier the path forward, given Pearl some semblance of family. Yet, how could Mary explain to Sabrina, to any of her students, that once one acted in sin, then the ramifications must be dealt with. Hester had acted out of lust and want. She had given over to her carnal desires. Her want for the minister Dimmesdale had outweighed her rational thought. Her lust and want of him had led her down the sinful path and, as Mary knew, sins must be paid for.

Chillingworth could not save Hester from her sin, not when she so brazenly and audaciously held the child as if it were a prize.

_“A proper lady always keeps her legs crossed_. _”_

Sabrina’s questions were too far off base. She did not yet understand the way in which the world worked. A woman did not give in to her desires so easily, if at all. It was an act to be had between a husband and wife. Mary was certain that if Chillingworth _had_ fathered the child he would not have disowned Hester as his legal wife.

As it were, he had every right to not fall into her disgrace. To uphold his good name.

But Sabrina’s insistent questions stuck with Mary. Even as she cleared away her dinner dish, cleaned everything up, put the kitchen back into order as she heated a slice of pineapple cake in the oven ever so slightly. It tasted as heavenly as the first night.

As she indulged in the sweet treat, she thought of Sabrina and the Spellmans. She had known of the Spellman Mortuary for ages for the home sat just a little way away off the same winding country road. In fact, Mary was quite certain, that their property lines connected. She thought of Zelda and Hilda Spellman, whom she knew of mostly by reputation and through several brief, neighborly encounters. They were quite mysterious, the whole family. As if they preferred to live in, yet apart from the small Greendale community. She had seen neither sister step foot in any of the churches in Greendale.

Mary wondered, then, what sort of upbringing Sabrina had had. What was it she knew of morality and God and the church? Could that be where these questions came from?

What was it that her aunts taught her?

The poor darling, being raised by her aunts after the terrible accident that had taken her parents when she had been just a babe. Mary remembered the article in the Greendale paper, the horrific mangle of car and tree. That had been sixteen years ago and yet she remembered it as if it were yesterday. What the poor girl must have suffered, growing up without her mother and father.

Perhaps she needed more guidance. Perhaps Mary could provide this for her, for she liked that Sabrina seemed to trust and respect her.

Mary cleaned her cake dish, dried her hands and fumbled with the radio receiver. There was a broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera of _Madama Butterfly_. It was astonishing what Puccini could do with an orchestra, the colorful images he could convey, with such gorgeous vocal lines layering atop the gut-wrenching music.

Mary sat in her chair and lifted her novel but could not seem to focus, lost for a moment on the delicate duet between Cio-Cio and Pinkerton. It made her skin tingle, the easy, fluid, flowing melody. The way their voices wove together until there was a crescendo to a climax and Mary felt something ripping apart in her chest at their expression of love.

The end of the duet left her strangely breathless. She listened as the crowd at the Metropolitan Opera fell into a sea of applause and she felt dizzy on some inexplicable happiness.

The day had been good.

She stood from her chair, placing the unread book face down. She walked to her study, turning on the overhead light to flood the room with light. There was only a brief pause on the threshold, a momentary hesitancy. For she knew she should not…and yet the day had been so nice and one would not hurt.

Her body felt calm as she moved to the desk drawer, as she pulled out the pack of cigarettes, extracting one, reaching for the matchbook.

She slipped into her moccasins and reached for a light jacket. The nights were cooler now. Opening the door, she was accosted by the decadent smell of autumn. The forest was slowly dying about her, emitting its final rush of fragrance before the snow would come.

She walked out into the dimming light of evening. She placed the cigarette between her lips and as she lighted it her eyes found the moon sitting low in the oncoming night sky. She inhaled deeply and then exhaled a white cloud of smoke into the night air. Brushing a bit of ash from her tongue, Mary placed the matchbox into her jacket pocket and pulled the article tighter about herself. She moved forwards, into the forest. To a pathway that she knew well.

She ventured into the stillness of night – only the brief rustling of a squirrel or the sound of wings as a bird took to flight. There was a calming comfort to this, as if an escape. From herself, from all that was about her. And when she reached the little stream, she leaned against a boulder and stared at the moon in the sky and smoked.

Wondering, wishing about things that seemed so intangible and impossible.


	5. The Night of the Living Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter that references the show - the very first moment I fell in love with these characters and their potential. It was really the first and last moment I enjoyed on this show. Too bad it came and went all too soon... ;)

_The Night of the Living Dead_

Sabrina had come again that week.

The thought of their time shared stuck with Mary. Lingered like a happy, comfortable little memory. With a promise to meet again the following week.

It had been less halting, less fumbled and there had been less discomfort between them. It had extended past the prior thirty minutes of work they had done the week before - as Sabrina had demanded Mary share her perspective on _The Scarlet Letter_ and listened with rapt attention as the teacher carefully tip-toed around the morality and hypocrisy. So that, by the end, Mary was quite certain she ended up not at all expressing the points she had intended and had, instead, ended up, inadvertently, leading Sabrina to believe that she agreed with her ideas.

And that evening, when she had gone home and recounted their conversation, she could almost see what it was that Sabrina believed. The way Sabrina almost _looked up_ to Hester as someone with great courage. To have held her child with pride, to have not been afraid, to have worn the “A” so proudly, so boldly, to embroider it with golden thread as if to _draw_ attention to her shame without fear…as if she were _proud_ of what it was she had done…with the minister…

It was Friday morning and Mary stood at the kitchen counter with the Greendale paper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, poised at her lips as her eyes skimmed the advertisements.

Halloween was fast approaching, followed soundly by All Soul’s Day. Her mother had scarcely ever allowed her to celebrate the _pagan_ holiday, but Mary quite enjoyed the lure of it. The idea of masked creatures, of being what one was not. The fear and terror surrounding it, the frightening images from films she had seen in the past.

No one dared to venture out to her cottage for Trick-or-Treating, but Mary often liked to walk downtown amidst the holiday celebrators, to observe what it was that she had never been a part of as a child, had never been allowed.

Her eyes fell to the advertisement for the Greendale cinema. There was a horror film playing that evening.

_The Night of the Living Dead_.

Perhaps she might slip to the movies that evening. She was certain no one would notice her in the dimmed, darkened movie theater. She was very certain that Mr. and Mrs. Daniels would not attend so ridiculous a film, nor would her other work colleagues. Yes, she was quite certain she could go completely unnoticed if she were to attend the movie that evening.

And it felt a terrible, thrilling little trespass. Against the church, against her own learned tastes.

But sometimes she wished to be frightened, to forget herself in someone else’s horrors.

The decision was made as she finished the last of her coffee, as she folded the paper neatly and placed it atop her counter, to pick up her satchel and purse.

The day of school flew by in a steady whirl and she found herself not quite minding when her lunch was, again, crammed into the back corner of the refrigerator, did not even care to notice her fellow colleagues all huddled about Mr. Barnes and his smarmy recounting of some heroic thing or other he had done. Instead, she made her way from the teacher’s lounge – with a quick glance up to find Miss Childs looking at her from across the room, so that they exchanged an awkward smile, before Mary disappeared again out the lounge door.

For it was her fourth period that she looked forward to and once it had come and gone she realized how much _too_ quickly the day was going. How, before she left the classroom, Sabrina happily presented her with her completed essay with a large smile on her rosy-red lips, her greenish eyes shimmering with some semblance of pride.

“I hope you like it, Miss Wardwell.” Sabrina beamed.

Mary smiled back at her. “I’m certain I shall.” And then Mary had looked down so as not to betray the slight, uncomfortable flush that had risen to color her cheeks for some inexplicable reason.

“See you next week, Miss Wardwell!” Sabrina called out as she raced to meet Harvey, who stood gallantly waiting for her at the door.

Mary glanced up as Sabrina disappeared around the corner.

There was a strange disappointment that came to Mary then. For a second, it felt as if something had dropped out from beneath her.

The rest of the day was uneventful.

Mary made a salad and finished the casserole she had made that week with the last of the brownies she had baked.

She was restless and strangely glad to have the movie at seven to look forward to. As if she needed, desperately, to get out of the house. To get away from her familiar surroundings, for there were too many temptations. With the film as an excuse to leave, to do something apart from her normal routine, she felt solider, steadier.

She washed the plates and pans and utensils.

She spent a fitful amount of time reading the last remnants of her novel – knowing a trip to the library would be on the docket for that weekend.

And when she glanced at the clock, she realized she would have to leave and a wave of pathetic excitement overcame her. That she had escaped, somehow.

She drove to the cinema and purchased a ticket without being noticed by the few teens she recognized from the halls of Baxter High. She made her normal beeline for the right balcony, ascending the steps with head bowed. She sat near to the far-right wall, as if keeping out of sight from others, so as not to block the middle of a row where, perhaps, two people might wish to sit together. Her corner seat would not disrupt anyone, and it was there that she relaxed into the darkened room and settled in to watch the film as it flickered to life on the screen.

There were the horrible, dreadful advertisements that came on before, which no one paid attention to. And it was during this time that Mary surveyed the rows before her. And it was in this moment that her eyes caught on the glowing, luminescent blonde hair of a girl several rows ahead of her on the other side.

She was not quite certain why she knew. It was a feeling that overcame her, a knowing.

For there beside the blonde girl was a dark-haired boy and from Mary’s vantage point she could tell that the young couple was holding hands. Though there was also a young girl with shortish brown hair who sat to the other side of the blonde and she watched as she leaned over to talk to this girl – as if not wishing to exclude her friend from her time with her boyfriend. 

The movie commenced.

But it was not the horror film which Mary seemed fascinated by.

Her eyes darted every now and again from the screen to where it was her pupils sat. To watch as Sabrina let her golden curls rest again Harvey’s shoulder. To how their hands clasped tightly, how Sabrina shared her popcorn with Susie, how she’d smile at her friend if their hands happened to touch in the buttery mess.

The whole of the audience jumped, but Mary could not fathom why. Something on the screen, some frightening Hollywood trick of props and lighting and cinematography that evoked something fearful and haunting had certainly occurred, but it was not this that she noticed. It was Harvey’s arm went about Sabrina, how her head rested comfortably, easy against his shoulder and he reclined back more, comfortable in the self-possessed way of youth.

She hardly noticed when the film ended, when the credits began to roll. It was only the lights of the theatre brightening – so that she could see the trio of her students more clearly – that she realized what had happened.

She stood, intent on removing herself from the theatre as quickly and efficiently as possible, so as not to run into the carefree youths whom she knew. She did not wish for them to know of her presence, for she wondered if they might notice that she had been eyeing them – she wondered if they would see it in her eyes if they looked too closely.

And Sabrina always looked closely.

Mary turned to find her way out of the theatre but found the aisles crowded with people, all pushing and rowdy and ready to leave. It took her several moments before she reached the staircase to descend to the movie theater lobby and then she would be free – free to return to her cottage in the woods and no one would be the wiser of where her eyes had traveled during the movie.

“Oh! Miss Wardwell!”

Mary’s eyes snapped up from the ornate pattern on the red carpet of the theater lobby floor. She had run straight into a figure.

Sabrina was looking right at her, eyes wide and welcoming and…was that a look of surprised _pleasure_?

“Sabrina!” Mary exclaimed, off-kilter.

“Miss Wardwell, what are you doing here?” Sabrina was beaming, all smiles and sunshine and warmth. “I didn’t take you for someone who would enjoy a horror film.”

Mary fumbled with her purse for a moment, searching for an excuse, feeling Harvey and Susie at her sides. Feeling their curious gazes upon her. “Well, who doesn’t enjoy a good fright every now and again?” She finally muttered, hoping that would appease the situation.

Sabrina grinned at this. “Hey, would you like to come get a milkshake at 'The Diner' with us? It’s where we always go after a movie to dissect the film. It’s kind of like a tradition we have.”

Mary felt her heart oddly racing, wondered if the pleased embarrassment had colored her cheeks the same shade of red that she felt. She simply could not, _would_ not accept such an invitation.

Yet, she could see it as it all played out before her. How Harvey and Susie would find her presence strange and perhaps uncomfortable, but Sabrina would happily address her as an equal, would hold her gaze as they spoke on the film … oh, no. No, it would never do. She had not even paid attention to the film closely enough to “dissect” it with them, so she most certainly could not accept such an invitation.

And besides, she was not Mr. Barnes whom she had seen cavorting with his students several times in the community. Be it at 'The Diner' or the library or any number of other inappropriate locales for teacher and students to be meeting. No, she could not accept.

“No, no.” She found herself looking down and shaking her head. “Thank you, thank you for the invitation, but I – I have papers to grade.”

Sabrina’s smile saddened briefly, as if she might protest.

“Really…thank you. Thank you. But I’ll…I’ll see you in class. Have a good night ‘dissecting’ the film.” She continued to babble as she pulled her coat tighter about herself.

“Alright, have a good night, Miss Wardwell.” Sabrina spoke reluctantly.

Mary nodded, eyes returning to the floor as she felt Harvey and Susie at her sides relax in relief.

She shuffled to the entrance of the theater, not looking back. Moving swiftly towards where it was she had parked her car across the street, to climb into its cabin, to start the ignition, to place her hands on the wheel and to realize they were shaking.

She felt a strange smile curl on her lips. Feeling oddly warm and lovely, yet strangely disappointed.

Sabrina had wanted her to come with them. Genuinely. She had felt it, seen it in her gaze.

But it was preposterous, silly even. For Mary to feel so pleased by this. It was unreasonable and ridiculous, to take pleasure in a _student_ asking her to The Diner, to discuss a movie. It was pathetic, wasn’t it?

And the smile slipped from her lips as she reflected further – as she realized that perhaps it had been a pity invite. Perhaps Sabrina had felt compelled to ask her for she had seen her there alone and would know…

No, the way she had looked had been far too genuine for that.

Hadn’t it?

Mary gripped tighter at the steering wheel, realizing that she was idling pointlessly in her parking spot. She glanced up ever so briefly and spotted the blonde walking, talking animatedly with her friends, as they crossed the street and moved away from Mary, towards 'The Diner'.

Mary shook her head, pulled from the parking spot and angled her car towards her home, towards the winding road that took her away from Greendale proper, away from Sabrina sitting in a diner drinking a cherry milkshake while speaking excitedly with her friends.

“Ridiculous.” Mary chastised herself.

For what had it been that had so enraptured her about it? The way in which Sabrina had looked so at ease with Harvey. The way her body eased against his, the way he touched her so intimately with such care and concern. She could see it in his soft gaze.

She had seen that look before, the careful handling.

Adam had always been respectful of her. Adam had cherished her as if she were a doll.

Though she would never have let her head rest idly upon his shoulder in the back of a darkened movie theatre.

She recalled the times they had gone to the theater in their youth, how he always sat near to her, how he would sometimes watch her as she watched the screen. But lines had never been crossed, a physical ease between them had hardly ever surfaced whether in public or in private.

As Mary walked into the cottage, hanging her coat on the rack, she recalled when things had begun to turn between them. When she had allowed him kisses that occasionally deepened. The way his agile tongue would brush against her teeth, how his hand would tighten about her waist.

And then he would go from her.

But each time it seemed to last a moment longer, stretched into something more and more so that he would kiss at the base of her neck.

A clumsy hand over the top of her sweater.

How she had responded to his touch because no one had ever touched her before. It had only ever been her own hands against hardened nipples.

He had looked at her, eyes wide when the noise had escaped from between her lips. His eyes had been stormy, a bit unfocused. It had frightened her.

And she didn’t like the confused feeling that had welled deep inside of her. The way she had been both aroused and revolted by him.

Her eyes had traveled to the place between his legs and she saw it for the first time. What it was she had done to him.

“Mary,” he’d whispered, burying his face in her neck.

She had not realized that she had lighted the cigarette until the smoke hit her lungs. She walked through her house, recalling the way in which she had pushed him away, shoved him so that there would be distance between them.

_“Mary, don’t you know that I love you?”_

No, she could not understand what it was to rest one’s head innocently upon a lover’s shoulder so openly. It was so sinful.

And yet Sabrina had looked so innocent, so _brave_ sitting there beside Mr. Harvey Kinkle. She looked as if she enjoyed his attentions very much.

Mary had read enough novels to know that, perhaps, this was normal. To be intimate in such ways.

Then why did it feel so wrong to her?

She noticed Tigger outside in the moonlight. Her transient cat who came and went as he pleased. Who did not need her as she did not need him. Who came when he wanted, took what he wanted, and then left her again.

She brought him a dish of food, petted his head, stood to stand on her porch, staring up at the starry night sky, smoking. Wondering.

Was she an anomaly? What was it that made her so different, so very unlike others? Why could she not be _normal_? To feel what it was other people felt?

What had so disgusted her in the way that Adam had come to her that evening? She supposed it was quite normal for a man and woman to do what it was that he had wanted and yet she had not been able to.

She had failed as a woman.

There was a feeling between her legs. A terrible, bothersome dampness.

She stubbed the cigarette out beneath her moccasin.

Tigger raced away into the forest.

She went back inside, cold.

She hugged herself in the chilly, dimly lit cottage. She should light a fire, read to help calm her racing mind, but she was too restless for that.

She moved as if to do what it was she had told Sabrina she was going to do – to sit in her study and grade the papers…but her body carried her to her bedroom where she began to undress, to remove the cross from about her neck, to shiver in the cool night air of the cold cottage. She let her hair down, one pin at a time until it fell about her face. She removed her glasses and slid into the warmth of her bed.

Her naked body felt strange and free against the soft sheets. Her hair brushed at her shoulders.

Her hand disappeared beneath the covers, to run over a breast. The sensation was remembered.

The wetness between her legs increased as she thought of what it was Adam had wanted to do to her, but what it was she could never allow herself to do.

And her hand slid between her legs as she moaned into the silent night around her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back from my brief hiatus and shamelessly bringing you my OTP.


End file.
